


Parasite

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, WTF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:51:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5220374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sméagol comes to Thorin where others won’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parasite

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Thorin/Gollum with bottom!Thorin” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/). Special thanks to pt_tucker for giving me inspiration with the ring’s wants~
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Sméagol likes him, but the precious _loves_ him. It drives Sméagol to _move_ , when he would’ve been fine to stay in the dark, in the home he already found, where there were orcs _but orcs are stupid and easy to fool_. Dwarves are more cunning, clever. They hold better watch. They would see him coming, if he didn’t have his precious. 

But he does, and he slithers past them, down into the depths of the mountain men call _lonely_ : it seemed fitting, once. Not so much, anymore. Sméagol hasn’t been lonely since the ring rewarded him: gave him _this_. The precious sings to him, guides his hands and feet, until he’s down by the hot dregs of the river that wind through the caverns, damp and still dark, but not as slick and full of dead things as Sméagol’s old ones. Candles are in sconces, here and there. Sméagol mostly avoids the patches of light. He avoids the sentries and goes down to the very end of the bathing hall, where a dwarf, still in its prime, is foolish enough to swim alone. 

When Sméagol caught orcs alone, he _ate them_. Dwarves might taste better, he thinks, fatter and juicier, but then, they might be _too ripe_ , and Sméagol doesn’t want to wrestle something that might fight back. Besides, this dwarf stirs other hungers. Always this one. The precious delivers him into this dwarf’s arms, but then Sméagol comes back into himself and follows through. He pokes up through the water, wide eyes glistening in the far-off firelight, and he watches the dwarf slick water all down his body. 

Thick, strong, all stretched muscles and coarse hair, but skin _so, so soft_. Thorin, the others call him. He’s not afraid to bathe alone in the dark, and sometimes he wears gold, rings and trinkets, frail loops around his neck or jewels embedded in his hair, that flicker in the light like pale imitations of the precious. He’s as tall as Sméagol used to be. But Sméagol’s worn down, become gaunt and hollow. He wades through the moving water until he can press his hands into the dwarf’s back, and the dwarf lets out a hitch of breath. 

All Thorin’s prone muscles tense. But then they release, and he murmurs, almost chuckles, “You again.” His voice is so melodic.

Sméagol’s is raspy, and he hisses, “ _Yesss_.”

Then it starts again. Sméagol gentle shifts around the creature’s body, running greedy hands wherever he should like, and Thorin makes a little moan that has Sméagol stirring beneath the cloth he still keeps tied around his waist. No one else dares do this to him, Thorin’s said—he’s a _prince_ , whatever that means to him. Sméagol isn’t afraid. Sméagol can give him what he wants, feeding the precious and feeding _Sméagol_. It’s a tether to this world he needed. Sméagol pushes Thorin back through the water, until Thorin’s spine hits the bank, hard dirt and rock that makes him grunt but not complain. He’s thick, sturdy, can take Sméagol’s clawing hands and uncontrolled teeth. Sméagol flattens tight against him, rubbing all their skin together— _warm skin-on-skin; Sméagol missed this_ —and grazes his neck, his chin. He has hair along it: shortened but hefty stubble. Sméagol never did. Thorin’s hair is long and in dark waves that Sméagol runs long fingers through, catching and pulling. When did dwarves get so _easy_?

Thorin groans and lets himself be turned, lets Sméagol force him around and bend him over the earth, legs still dipped in the water. But his rear’s above it. The water laps at his thighs. Sméagol has a fleeting moment of touching Thorin’s balls, playing with them beneath Thorin’s plump cheeks, but then the interest dies, as it always does. The precious says _don’t give him anymore_. Just _use him_. Make him want this, _crave this_. He doesn’t know. It’s so dark, and he has pitiful dwarf eyes, not sharp eyes gifted from a beautiful ring—maybe he thinks he’s just with a bold dwarf, a particularly skinny, cold one. But deep down, he must know that it’s the _precious_ that has him, and Sméagol is the precious’ master.

So Sméagol is _Thorin’s master_. Sméagol runs his hands all over Thorin’s ass, probes into his crack and rubs over his hole, messy and lewd but insistent. Thorin grabs at the dirt, moans, and thrusts himself back. Wanton. Sméagol lifts out of the water, bends over Thorin’s back and licks down his spine, just to make him quiver and make that gorgeous sound again. Sometimes it feels like Sméagol waits for this for _ages_.

And then he comes and he _takes what he wants_. He moves his own cloth up, twists it back into the strap and rubs his hard shaft between Thorin’s cheeks. He’s always hard when he sees Thorin, wherever he catches Thorin, though always in the shadows, especially the bath or in bed, when there’s no fabric in the way. But the precious makes Sméagol _ache for it_. He hasn’t prepared Thorin enough, knows that, from distant memories by the river in the bright, awful sun. But Thorin’s a dwarf and can _take it_. Sméagol lines himself up and _slams inside_ , so hard that Thorin _screams_ , his cry ricocheting down the empty chamber. It makes Sméagol giddy. It makes Sméagol smile. Sméagol clutches tight to Thorin’s sides and starts thrusting into Thorin’s fire-hot body, so sweet in his arms. 

He fucks Thorin for a little while, saying nothing, never does. Just shoves in, slips half out, slams in again. Thorin’s tight, very tight, not very wet but wet enough. Sméagol noses into his hair, breathes in the musky stench of _life_ , a vital warrior. Thorin groans and writhes beneath him. Thorin doesn’t get fucked enough. He’s said that. Sméagol always will. Sméagol doesn’t care about princes; he has the precious; just things he can stuff his cock and teeth into. Thorin mutters something like, _“Please,”_ and it makes Sméagol dizzy, because no one ever _begs_ for things from Sméagol.

Sometimes Thorin asks—who is he—why won’t he come into the light—where is he from and why won’t he stay? Sméagol never gives answers. Dwarves are clever, but Sméagol is wiser. Sméagol knows how to stay safe, and Sméagol doesn’t relish risks. This is a risk enough. Sméagol fucks Thorin’s eager body again and again, as much as Sméagol can take, and then the precious cries to _fill him up_ and Sméagol always listens.

Sméagol only hisses, never screams, not here. He digs his teeth into Thorin’s shoulder and ruts his seed into Thorin’s channel, while Thorin gasps and tries to buck back into him. Halfway through, Thorin follows. His ass spasms around Sméagol’s cock and he screams again, though Sméagol doesn’t touch him there. Sméagol finishes, stays spent over Thorin’s back, and pulls out with a wet squelching sound. 

Then Sméagol slips right back into the water. Thorin groans, mutters, “No—” but Sméagol’s heard a noise.

Lumbering footsteps, and then the call: a rough, crude, “Thorin?” It’s the big bald one with the ugly ink on his head, usually is, always spoils Sméagol’s fun, and Sméagol _hates him_ for it. 

But the precious says _not yet_ so Sméagol just disappears beneath the tide, gone without a word.


End file.
